Remembering
by CrysWimmer
Summary: Abby gets sick, and in taking care of her Gibbs is reminded of another little girl he's taken care of.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Something wasn't right with Abby. That was a given.

Unfortunately, Tim was all too familiar with what it would mean to question Abby's mood. When she wasn't feeling well, or when something was bothering her, the best thing to do was to leave her alone. He had learned not to ask questions, and not to ask others for help. He might have the best of intentions, but she wouldn't care. Abby did not like interference. Tim was surprised that it wasn't one of Gibbs' rules.

Rule number fifty-one, he thought. Don't mess with Abby when the music is off. Maybe he'd send his boss a memo on that one. On the other hand, Gibbs knew her better than anyone else seemed to, so he probably had his own number for that rule.

Maybe she was just tired; Lord knew he was. The week had started early Sunday morning with a double homicide just outside the Quantico gate. They had spent all of the day – and well into the night – gathering and labeling evidence. He had photographed for more than nine hours, and he only hoped that he hadn't missed anything. Seven hundred twenty-six digital photos in all. Then once they had returned to the office, there were hours of logging and reporting to be done. Nobody had left the building before midnight, and Tim didn't think Gibbs had left at all. He knew that when they had finally ended their day, Abby had just been beginning hers.

She had been there the next day when he came back in to work. She had been there that night when he left. Tuesday morning she had been there, but she had been quieter. He wondered if she had gone home, or if she had just slept on the floor as she often did. He didn't have time to ask as he ran down leads and bumped into multiple dead ends.

On Wednesday, there had been no music. Checking with her in the lab for the results on yet another cheek swab on yet another suspect, he had noticed the absence of music and assumed she had finally gone home. She had not. As he had placed the specimen back in its bin, he had seen her working on something in the corner of her lab. At least, he had thought she was working. As he approached her, he had noticed that she wasn't moving at all. Her hands were still, her eyes were fixed on some imaginary point on the wall, and she gave no indication that she knew he was there. He'd had to call her name twice before she responded, and then she'd been groggy. Slow.

He had almost asked her then if she was okay, but he had stopped himself. Instead, he had asked her if she needed anything. She had merely shaken her head and signed for the evidence he had brought her, then she went back to her staring at the wall. After a moment, he had left her to her thoughts.

The case had taken an odd turn after that, and they had been something beyond busy as they followed a new course. New leads, new evidence, and even a new crime scene added its information to the first and they had to begin their hypothesizing again. Another day of questioning suspects, then there was cross-referencing it with the first interviews. It had been Friday before he'd made it back to her lab. The music had still been off, she'd still been nearly silent – giving one-word answers where she normally digressed in every direction – and she had looked rather pale to him. Abby was always pale of course, but she looked more so to him now. Tim was afraid that something was really wrong.

He'd had these concerns before. Unfortunately, asking had just gotten him into trouble. Sharing the situation with Tony had been a grand mistake of epic proportion. And he felt stupid taking the situation – if there even was a situation – to Gibbs. Maybe she was just feeling quiet. Maybe she was just tired.

Maybe something was really wrong.

Enough was enough. Tim finally gave in to his better instincts and walked down to the lab. The silence hadn't improved at all. In fact, it seemed to be worse if anything, echoing around him as noise never did.

"Abby?" he called out as he glanced around the silent space.

He didn't see her at first. She was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest and her hands resting on them. She was gazing at – so far as he could tell – nothing at all. Yet her eyes were wide open, so he knew she wasn't sleeping. At least, he thought she wasn't.

"Abby?" he asked again as he knelt down next to her.

She took a moment to answer, her eyes moving from their point on the wall to finally meet his gaze. "What?" she asked simply.

"Abby, are you feeling okay?" He might as well go straight to the point.

"Sure."

When she didn't elaborate, he tried to get something more out of her. "And you're sitting on the floor because…?" he began. To his frustration, she didn't finish the sentence for him despite the intonation which clearly made it a question. "Abby, why are you on the floor?" A straight question had at least received a response before, so he tried the tactic again.

"I was tired," she answered. With that, she stood in a somewhat robotic manner and turned to a counter. Without another word to him, she began to mechanically open a bag, remove its contents, and proceed to reach for the materials to begin testing it.

Tim didn't ask any more questions. He didn't consider talking to Tony or Ziva to ask for suggestions about the situation. He didn't consider trying to manage the problem himself any longer. Tim knew something – whatever it was – was wrong with Abby and that there was only one thing to be done for it.

Timothy McGee went to find Gibbs.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Leroy Jethro Gibbs hated unanswered questions. It was ironic in a way, because his job was dependent upon those same unanswered questions. Still, he considered it a personal mission to dispel the doubts and find the answers where others failed. He solved the problems. He learned the answers.

And when he couldn't do so, it pissed him off royally.

At the moment, he was a stage beyond pissed. The team had been over this case with several fine toothed combs for the last four days, and they had been getting nowhere in a hurry. The first three days appeared to be a total waste, as they'd been heading in a direction that had led to a brick wall.

Two Privates – neither one old enough to so much as drink a beer – had been mercilessly stabbed on their way to work. Just outside the front gate to the base, their bodies had been found split from navel to collar bone. Each had bled out, according to Ducky no more than a few minutes apart. The murder weapon had been left there, completely free of prints. The boys – he could hardly call them men – had their wallets, credit cards, and cash intact in their uniform pockets.

Too damned many unanswered questions. Why were two of them attacked? Were they attacked by one assailant or more? What was the motive? How in hell didn't the gate guard hear something? Why wasn't their any evidence of their defending themselves? Ducky assured him it wasn't a drop – blood had settled in very specific patterns showing that they had died where they had fallen. Still, they hadn't been found until first light.

But why? That was the question paramount in Gibbs' mind. Why? They were low-level enlisted personnel. Their jobs weren't secure, they were apparently well known and well liked on base, each one living in a separate dorm. They had both been working second shift and had gone out to dinner – possibly together – and neither had returned to work. There were a few similarities between them, such as age and rank, but that was about it. They had few common friends outside of work, they were from different units, but the same command. They worked in the same building, but lived in separate dorms. One was white, the other black. One had a girlfriend, the other did not. There was simply not enough common ground to find a connection – a link – that might lead them to a motive.

So Gibbs was not particularly happy when he heard someone approach quietly behind him. McGee, he realized. He could tell from the aftershave. The agent still wore it, although Gibbs felt that it interfered with his sense of smell and didn't bother with it himself. He waited a moment, but the young agent didn't speak. Finally, irritation got the better of him.

"Was there something you wanted?" he asked, not bothering to look up from the file he had read for the fifth time.

"Yes, Sir," he said quickly, stumbling. "I mean, Boss. I was wondering… I mean, I was concerned about… That is …"

"Say it, or get back to work," Gibbs told him, his voice leaving no room for argument. He didn't have time for fidgeting agents. He needed to figure this out. He knew if he could just find the pattern, he would be able to…

"It's Abby," McGee finally answered. "I'm worried about her."

"Abby's a big girl," he muttered. "Worry about yourself if you don't figure out what we're missing with this case."

"Yes, Sir. I mean… No, Sir. Boss, something's really wrong."

The kid was standing by his guns, he had to give him that however annoying it was. "McGee, I don't have time for…"

"There's no Caf-Pow in her lab," McGee said quickly. "The music's off, and she's walking around like a zombie. She's sitting on the floor and staring at walls. Boss, I think she might be sick or something."

Gibbs slid the glasses down his nose that he hated to rely on and looked over them at the younger man. He saw concern on his face – genuine concern – and just a little bit of fear. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard much from Abby in the last couple of days himself. He'd dropped off a few things, but generally Tony or McGee took the evidence down to the lab. It was unusual, really, and a sign of how preoccupied he'd been with the case. Normally he managed to get down there at least once a day to check on his favorite lab rat.

Brushing aside another comment, he decided it would be faster to check things out himself than to spend the next few minutes reassuring his paranoid agent. "I'll check on her," Gibbs promised, although he didn't sound particularly happy about the interruption in his day. "Now get back to work."

"Yes, Boss," McGee said, and Gibbs heard the relief in his voice. A prickle of fear threaded its way up his spine as he watched a weight lift from the man's shoulders. The kid was genuinely worried, he'd give him that.

Gibbs had a nagging irritation at the base of his spine as he walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the basement. Before the doors even closed, he changed his mind and pressed the button to stop on the ground floor. There was no reason to go into this situation unarmed, and he needed a break for himself.

Ten minutes later, he was carrying a coffee and a Caf-Pow through the metal detector as he headed back to the elevator. This time he did go to the basement, and despite McGee's warnings he was surprised at the silence. Even when her mood was crappy, Abby normally had something on the CD player. A good mood meant loud and obnoxious, and a bad mood normally meant something soft or classical, but either way her music tended to be a reflection of her state of mind. The few times he'd known her to turn the music off altogether she had been genuinely upset about something.

She had her back to him and was standing stock-still when he entered the lab, and that prickle at the base of his spine started to spread. "Hey, Abs," he called out as he approached her, not wanting to startle her if she was working on something sensitive. He needn't have worried. Her hands were as still as the rest of her, her gaze fixed on the vial in her hand. "Abby?"

She seemed to take her time answering. Finally she raised her eyes to his and looked at him with nothing short of confusion. "Gibbs?"

"Abby, what's wrong?" He set down her drink and turned her gently to face him.

"Nothing." Her voice was flat, monotone. Definitely not Abby.

He looked at her a moment. Nothing. His standard stare wasn't going to get the job done this time. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. There were shadows beneath her eyes, almost a gray tint to her skin. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked, his voice softening.

Again, she seemed to take forever to answer. He was a man known for his patience in waiting out suspects, but he didn't have any patience at all to wait this out. Her gaze was unfocused, and she wasn't answering him. On a flash of inspiration he put his wrist to her forehead to check for a fever, and instead he met cool skin. She didn't even flinch at his action.

Gibbs had had enough. He glanced at the televiewer and dismissed the idea of using it without Abby's assistance. What she made look easy was just another technical obstacle to him. He briefly considered taking her down the hall to autopsy, but he wasn't entirely sure he'd get her cooperation. Finally, he went with the simplest solution and pulled out his cell phone.

The phone rang only once. "Dr. Mallard," was the reply in a clipped English accent.

"Doc, I need you in Abby's lab," he said without preamble.

"Jethro? Where are you?"

Frustration began to build, and some spilled over into his voice. "Abby's lab," he said through gritted teeth. "I need you to check something."

"I'm rather busy here," Ducky began. "Would it be possible…"

"No it wouldn't," Gibbs yelled into the phone. "Now!" He snapped the phone closed for emphasis as he continued to observe Abby. She hadn't appeared to follow the conversation.

He was still watching her when Ducky entered the room, his apron and gloves were gone, but he was clearly dressed for an autopsy. He crossed from the door to the sink without looking at Gibbs or Abby and began to wash his hands. "Now, if you would tell me why you are in such a blessed hurry," he said with clear exasperation. "You have consistently demanded immediate results from my tests, and you well know that I am still searching for additional evidence, so if you would kindly explain to me why you are unable to wait even…"

The doctor had grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and turned to Gibbs as he dried his hands. Seeing the motionless lab technician, he stopped speaking.

"Abby," Gibbs said softly. No response. He tried a little more loudly. "Abby!"

"What?" she asked slowly, confusion evident. "I just stopped for a minute. I'll finish now." She moved back to the counter then looked down at her hand as though she'd never seen the vial she held in it. "What was I doing with this?" she asked.

Thankfully, Ducky didn't seem to need an explanation of the situation. "Abigail?" he questioned. It was a moment before she turned toward him. When she did, her face was slightly less confused than it had been. The movement appeared to have roused her. "Abigail," he said a second time, using her name deliberately to gain her attention. "How are you feeling?"

The confusion returned to her face. "I'm fine," she said.

"You're not fine, my girl," he said simply. "Are you feeling dizzy?" he asked. "Tired? Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine," she said again, her tone unchanged.

"Jethro, go find Mr. Palmer. Tell him I will need my medical bag. He can find it in the back seat of my car. I never go anywhere without it."

"Keys?" Gibbs asked.

"Left coat pocket," he answered, never taking his eyes from Abby.

Gibbs nodded and headed for the door. He wouldn't bother with Palmer; he would get the damned bag himself. As he left he heard Ducky speaking in a more normal tone of voice.

"Have I told you about the time I was able to aid in the diagnosis of a Senator's wife?" he asked. "It was several years ago, when I saw a car stopped on the side of the road. Naturally I stopped, and I was quite glad I did…"

Gibbs didn't hear any more as he rushed to get the keys, and then he headed for the stairs because he didn't want to take time for the elevator.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Ducky waited rather patiently for Jethro's return. Mentally, he was going over the list of what he needed to do. He considered calling for an ambulance, but decided against it. He would just check a few things for himself, first. Perhaps this was something simple, in need of only basic treatment. He prayed that was the case. Physically, he allowed himself to chat mundanely about past experiences. His voice seemed to hold her attention, and he could easily speak at length while doing other things.

Confusion. That was the primary symptom he could diagnose at the moment. Disorientation, pale skin, and a pulse that was perhaps faster than normal. He wasn't certain of her normal resting pulse rate, so the quick pulse against his fingers as he touched her wrist could only tell him that it was slightly rapid for the average young female. Quite frankly, he could attribute that to her common intake of caffeine, or even her usual quick metabolism.

"Abby, do you know where you are?" he asked her.

It was a moment before she answered. "My lab," she finally said.

"What day is it?"

She took longer for this question. "Wednesday?" She sounded uncertain. "Or Thursday?"

"It's Friday afternoon, Dear," he told her gently. "When did you last sleep?"

She thought about that for a long while, and then she finally shrugged her shoulders.

Ducky took a breath of relief when Jethro came into the lab with his bag. First things first, he thought, and reached for his sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. Mentally he noted that her blood pressure was low, although not dangerously so, and he used the stethoscope to listen to her heart. The beat was rapid, but regular and with no murmur. He couldn't tell any more about her cardiac status without further instruments, and those were not currently available.

He exchanged the first two implements for another. It took him a moment to organize the supplies, but momentarily he was using a lancet to obtain a drop of blood to check her glucose level. He knew Jethro was watching him as he worked, but he attempted to focus on what he was doing rather than the glare of the NCIS team leader. Her blood sugar was low as well, although again not dangerously so. Respiration was shallow but regular and of normal rate. A quick check with a simple pen light showed him that her pupils were reacting normally to light. Her body temperature was normal.

Next he attempted to check her neurological status. This required cooperation on her part, so it was a frustrating process. Eventually she was able to squeeze his hands, push up and down with both hands and feet with an equal if less-than-normal strength, and demonstrate normal reflexes.

What continued to be a concern to him was the delay in processing that she was experiencing. Each command he gave required several seconds to register, and than she seemed to be working very hard to comprehend and comply with those commands.

"Jethro, there are some test results on the very low edge of normal, but I can't do more without further equipment and testing. I hate to say this, but she really should be seen by a physician who has better access to facilities than I. Unfortunately, while I can manage basic first aid, I simply don't have the equipment to adequately assess the living." Frustration rang from every word, but he couldn't help it. His instinct told him that something was very wrong, and yet he couldn't detect it. Yes, he could draw blood and give oxygen, but frankly even if he were able to determine what was disorienting Abigail, he was unable to treat her. The situation went against his instincts as both a physician and a friend.

"Abby, can you walk well enough to get to my car?" he asked, grateful that he'd driven it instead of his truck. It had a smoother ride, and it would be more comfortable for her.

There was a long pause before she nodded, and then her face furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

"We need to get you checked out," he said simply.

Another pause, and then another nod. Abby stood up from where Ducky had requested she sit in the chair by her computer, and her legs wobbled. She took two steps, and then she collapsed.

Gibbs was faster than Ducky, and he had an arm under her to lower her to the floor even before Ducky could reach for the phone and dial 911. He explained the situation, requested paramedics rather than EMTs, and returned to his patient within minutes.

"Jethro, find Mr. Palmer. Send him to the infirmary. I need a pulse oximeter and a cardiac monitor. Go. Now!"

Bless him, Gibbs didn't argue. He headed out of the room at a jog as Ducky did a quick evaluation of Abigail. Her pulse was a little thready, but the rate hadn't changed. Quickly, he moved to a cabinet in her lab and grabbed several vacutainer tubes of varied color. Returning to Abby, he assembled the supplies necessary to draw blood, making sure he had two tubes for each of the most common tests: complete blood count, electrolytes, thyroid and liver functions, and several other tests. Once this was complete, he dug through his bag for IV supplies, selecting a saline solution containing dextrose in case blood sugar was indeed her problem.

He didn't think it was.

By the time the Jethro returned, he had her IV in place with a solid 18 gauge catheter. Any necessary medications could be given through this during transport. He connected the pulse oximeter to her finger and was vaguely concerned when the best he could get was in the upper eighties. He sent Palmer, who had come into the room with Jethro, to get the portable oxygen unit. By the time the paramedics arrived, he had her on oxygen, her IV running at a good pace, and her tubes of blood were labeled.

"Bethesda," he told the lead paramedic as they loaded Abby onto the gurney.

The man looked at him as though he were from another planet. "The closest facility is…"

"I said, Bethesda," Ducky stated again.

"She active duty?" the second paramedic asked, glancing rather obviously at the tattoos and attire that Abby had worn that day.

"She's DOD," Gibbs answered, the first words he had spoken since Abby's collapse. "Take her to Bethesda. I'll take responsibility."

The first paramedic nodded and transferred the IV bag from the makeshift hanger that Ducky had fashioned from a large paperclip on the cabinet door to the more appropriate IV holder on the gurney. "Bethesda it is," he said. "Anyone coming with her?"

"Jethro," Ducky began, but the younger man cut him off.

"Go, Duck," he said quickly. "Make sure they take care of her. I want a doctor in that ambulance." He paused a moment and then added, "I'll follow you."

If it occurred to Dr. Mallard that he wasn't a traditional doctor, he said nothing. He simply nodded and followed the gurney out of the lab. As the elevator doors closed, Ducky glanced back and saw the expression on Jethro's face. He didn't think he'd ever seen the special agent closer to panic than he was at that moment. Absently, he wondered if Jethro would be safe to drive.

Then again, he smiled to himself, was he ever?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It took him a few minutest, but Jethro finally got things straightened around so that he could leave NCIS Headquarters. If there was a part of him that felt strange leaving behind a case, and his team, he firmly ignored it. After all, it was his team that he was worried about.

He had headed up to his director first, although cluing Jenny in on the situation hadn't been his intention. With more command than request, he finally got his hands on Abby's personnel file. It would contain any medical information that they had on her, such as medications and general history. He imagined it would be helpful.

Next was to pass over the case. He did so with a minimum of words to a baffled Tony and a frightened looking McGee. He hadn't hung around long enough to answer questions, and he didn't offer explanations beyond Abby being sick, and him following her to the hospital. Something told him that his cell phone would be ringing off the hook before he made it out of the building, so he stuck it in his drawer as he grabbed his badge. His gun he left; it would be too much trouble with hospital security. The badge might open doors, however, and he would take what he could get.

Traffic did not allow him to drive the twenty miles to Bethesda at the speed he would have liked. Frankly, a small jet would not have been fast enough for him in his present mood. Rush hour traffic – an oxymoron if he'd ever heard one – kept him at a ridiculously stately pace as he maneuvered around the loop and managed to take the off ramp towards the National Navy Medical Center, his patience was at an end and he was wishing that he'd brought his cell. Hell, what if Ducky was trying to call him right now? There were disadvantages to impulsivity. He flashed a DOD identification card at the main gate, and negotiated the maze of streets that led to the hospital.

By the time he was parked and entering through the Emergency entrance, he was ready to murder the first person he came into contact with. Thankfully, his gun was sitting beside his cell phone in the top drawer of his desk nearly twenty miles away.

"Scuito," he said quickly to the slight, blond woman sitting at the reception desk. He had Abby's record tucked under his arm and nothing left in the way of tolerance. "Abigail Scuito. She came in by ambulance."

"Are you a family member?" the woman asked.

God, he should have known it would come to this. "Her father," he lied quickly. He could play a roll when he needed to, and honesty wasn't a priority at the moment. "I brought some records for the doctor," he added, hoping it would convince her. At this moment, being family was more likely to get him cooperation than being a government agent.

The woman gave him an assessing look, and then finally began tapping away at her computer keyboard. "Can you spell that name?"

"Sierra, Charlie, Uniform, Indigo, Tango, Oscar," he rattled off. The secretary – or whatever she was – didn't appear to notice the seemingly irrelevant words. But then, this was a Navy Hospital, and she had mostly likely heard it all before.

"I have her in CT," she said as she glanced up. "But she should be back in a bit. I don't see an admission order. She's in bay two, and she already has someone with her. There isn't a lot of room in the bays. If you'll just have a seat over by the…"

She didn't finish her sentence before he had turned and headed for the large, metal double doors. With a sigh, she pressed the button beneath her desk to release the doors with a buzz. He stormed through them and stopped short, having no clue where "bay two" might be.

"May I help you?"

The man was young – God, they were all so young – and sported green scrubs with no lab coat. Likely, not a doctor. "Bay two," Gibbs said without preamble.

A brief nod, no conversation, and he was following the corpsman down the hall and into a large room which was divided into sections by curtains. Some were drawn closed around patients, and others were not. He made his way behind the man to the desk at the end of the room. "Patient name?" he asked.

"Scuito. I think she's in CT."

The man nodded. "She is. You can wait over here.

Gibbs was led to an empty cubicle with the curtains closed about half way. When the corpsman had left, he sat down on the round, rolling chair that was next to a very large oxygen tank.

He had quite a wait. He checked his watch eleven times over the next twenty minutes, resisting the urge to ask at the desk just what was going on. Ducky was with her, he reminded himself. If Ducky wasn't here, he was with her. Gibbs held onto that mantra as minute drug into minute. He was oblivious to the movement around him, the occasional groan of pain or muttered conversation between doctors and patients. God, he really hated hospitals.

"Jethro!"

The voice was a welcome salve to his mood. "How is she?" he asked immediately. "Where…"

"Jethro, she's fine," Ducky told him in a firm if rushed manner. The confidence in that voice soothed his temper and his nerves. "The neurologist wanted a CT scan to be sure that she hadn't sustained a head injury. The results were normal. I haven't spoken to him, but I watched as they did the scan and I didn't see any abnormality. She's more alert than she was, although no more cooperative. I haven't known a patient to be so difficult since… well, since you," the doctor said pointedly.

"What's wrong with her?" Gibbs asked, sinking back down onto the stool he had so quickly vacated when he had heard Ducky's voice.

"At this point, I can only tell you what's _not_ wrong with her," the doctor said. "There's no head injury, nor evidence of seizures; they did an EEG when we first arrived. Her blood work is borderline normal, although everything seems to be a little on the low side. She is becoming more alert and coherent with time, and apparently her crisis is passing. I'm sure the doctors have several more tests to perform, but thus far I agree with their assessment and plan of action."

"Which is?" Gibbs asked.

"She will most likely be admitted for twenty-four hours," the doctor answered. "She will be monitored, and if she has no further difficulty than she will be discharged."

"When they don't know what was wrong with her?" Gibbs questioned.

Ducky took a breath, lifted one shoulder, and looked as though he were ready to begin one of his longer explanations. Thankfully, the corpsman chose that moment to roll Abby into the room.

Gibbs didn't like the look of her. She was ghostly pale, still wearing oxygen – although they had switched from a mask to a nasal cannula – and she had an IV in each arm. Her eyes were closed, but he didn't think she was asleep. Once they had her at a stop and were fussing to transfer lines from the portable to the wall-mounted units, those eyes began to flutter. Her smile was small, and looked like it was a lot of effort.

"It's Gibbs," she said, her voice slightly slurred. "Ducky, it's Gibbs."

"I know, Abigail," the doctor said, stepping towards her and taking her hand gingerly, avoiding the IV that was sticking out of it.

"Hey, Gibbs," she said, her voice slurring again, as though she were drunk. "What're you doing here?" She looked around a moment, appearing to have difficulty focusing on anything. "Where is here?" she added.

Gibbs had only seen her like this once before, following a quarter bottle of Jack Daniels on one of the worst nights of his life, and he didn't like the reminder. Then, he'd found it as amusing as upsetting. He had known what was causing it, and he'd known it was temporary. Now…

Her hand flopped around, lifting insufficiently to reach over the rail of the gurney, and nearly dislodging the IV that was placed there. He reached forward to take her hand as she attempted to raise it – just as unsuccessfully – for a second time. "Gibbs," she slurred, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"She wasn't this bad before," Gibbs told Ducky in a loud whisper. "What the hell happened?"

"She was rather combative as we attempted the CT," he explained. "I'm afraid they gave her a mild sedative. They didn't want her unconscious, as we need to continue to assess her neurological state, but I'm afraid she's reacting rather… strongly to the medication."

"She's stoned out of her gord," Gibbs muttered, not liking it at all. He was half afraid that this wasn't even the medication, and that they'd miss some symptom by assuming it was.

"It's a short acting medication, Jethro," Ducky assured her. "In twenty minutes it will be out of her system and she'll likely not even remember the scan or its aftermath."

Gibbs was mildly placated, but still not happy. "So if you don't know what it is, then what's it not?" he asked, returning to the conversation that they had been having before her return. Abby kept a slightly goofy grin on her face, holding onto each of them with a hand, and her head bounced back and forth depending on who was speaking. Gibbs was reminded of a slightly Goth bobble-head doll.

"Protein levels in the urine were normal, as were her pancreatic enzymes, so diabetes is unlikely. Her thyroid and liver function tests also came back normal – or nearly so – so they have ruled out multiple conditions that way. She's not running a fever and the head CT was fine, so encephalitis is unlikely. She has no known history of epilepsy, and no evidence of anticonvulsant drugs in her system, so seizures have also been ruled out. Cardiac function appears normal on both the EKG and echocardiogram, and she had normal levels of cardiac enzymes. The majority of the more dangerous conditions have been eliminated."

"What wasn't normal?" Gibbs asked. "You said she had mostly normal results. What was off?"

"Blood sugar was a little low," Ducky answered thoughtfully. "That could be a result of poor eating habits. Our Abby has never been what I'd consider a health-food fanatic."

"What else?"

"Oxygen saturation was slightly low," he continued. "That could be a result of a number of things, from shallow breathing to pneumonia. There isn't any sign of either. Her heart rate is slightly elevated for a woman her age, but not dangerously so. Given her choice of beverage and normal caffeine intake, the elevation isn't terribly surprising."

"So what is it?" Gibbs asked in frustration.

"That's what we're trying to find out." The voice was both deep and no-nonsense.

Gibbs turned to see the doctor – if the white lab coat and stethoscope were any indication – who was thankfully more than twelve years of age. In fact, the graying temples and wrinkles gave any idea, the man was probably nearing retirement. He wasn't Navy, Gibbs realized. The silver eagles on the man's blue uniform, visible where the stethoscope had nudged the lab coat aside, indicated that he was a full-bird, Air Force Colonel. Gibbs was just glad that he wasn't a first year intern.

"Mind if I pick up where you left off?" the doctor asked, and Gibbs had the impression that Ducky was slightly uncomfortable as he gave a slight blush. Gibbs wondered how long the doctor had been listening to them.

"Certainly," he muttered.

"As Dr. Mallard was saying," the doctor – his name tag said Hucker – began, "there doesn't appear to be any acute reason for the disorientation and confusion she presented with. She was slightly dehydrated and the fluids seem to have done a great deal to improve her level of consciousness. Nevertheless, her reflexes are slow and her grips are weak, if equal. I'm not convinced – regardless of the results of the CT scan – that there isn't something neurological happening. Complex partial seizures are insidious, and we can't diagnose one unless she actually has one with the EEG leads in place."

"So what do we do, Dr. Hucker?" Gibbs asked.

"I tend to err on the side of caution," he answered, giving Ducky a small smile. "And I think that admitting her is the safest option. I'd like to observe her until her level of consciousness and general reflexes appear more normal and we're sure that she's able to eat, drink, walk, and manage all the other things that seemed beyond her when you brought her in."

"How long?" Ducky asked before Gibbs had the chance.

"I think your estimate of twenty-four hours is a good start," he answered. "If we don't see what we're looking for by then, we'll reevaluate."

Gibbs nodded along with Ducky. He didn't like it, and he absolutely hated hospitals, but he'd put up with it for Abby.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

As a rule, Abby didn't mind a good vacation, but spending her sick days in a hospital bed with more wires than some of her most complicated equipment was not on her agenda. In addition, between the oxygen, IVs, and the pulse oximeter taped to her index finger, even going to the bathroom wasn't an easy task. She tolerated the embarrassment of calling for assistance to do so only because she knew if she didn't she'd just find herself with one more tube in a very unacceptable place.

So despite her assurances to the nurse that if they'd just "unplug" her, she'd do it herself, she wound up being walked into the potty like her great Aunt Esther. It was humiliating. The only thing that would have been worse would have been if Gibbs had done it. That was why she had sent him on a mission to seek out a Caf-Pow at all costs. She'd wanted him gone until she could take care of business.

As the nurse helped her back into bed, she couldn't help but groan at her situation, whatever her situation was.

"Are you hurting, dear," the nurse asked with a voice of concern.

"Only my pride," Abby muttered, tugging the backless robe around her and yanking on one of the IVs in the process. "Can't we take at least one of these out?" she asked.

"Not yet," the nurse told her. "One is for fluids, and the other was for contrast. If we take it out, we'll just have to put in another if the doctor orders a second CT scan."

Thinking of the circular thing they had tried to stick her head in was not a recipe for comfort. She didn't remember a great deal about what had gone on since she had driven to work on Monday – she thought it was Monday – but she remembered them rolling her back into what she had felt was a tunnel and trying desperately to crawl out of it. After that, all she remembered was becoming aware that she was in a hospital bed with a magnificent need to pee.

No, this wasn't her idea of a vacation.

Gibbs had been there, though. That had been kind of nice. Ducky had been in and out, fielding phone calls from the team who were hard at work without her. And here she was, multiple tubes and wires protruding from herself, while they were doing all the work. If she weren't so tied down by the equipment, she might just sneak out, call a cab, and go back to work.

That was, of course, if she could find the strength to sit up.

Abby could never remember being so weak. She didn't know if it was the jello means they had offered her, or the medication that had made her so wonky, or if it was the fluid that continually poured into her from the bags above her bed. But something was messing with her head. It was better now – she knew who and where she was, and she was able to understand what was going on around her – but she wasn't right. That more than anything was why she stayed in the annoying bed which changed position every time she did to keep her from getting bedsores. She felt like crap.

She didn't even remember when it had all started. Saturday night she'd been fine. Okay, she'd headed home early from a date because she'd thought she was coming down with something. She'd had a scratchy throat and felt a little hot, and she figured a good night's sleep might help. She had woke up early after having a… nightmare, she supposed, where she couldn't catch her breath. Once she'd gotten up, gargled with some Listerine, and fixed herself a cup of tea she'd been fine. She had gone to church, come home early to rest – the lack of sleep the night before was just catching up with her, she supposed – and had taken a nice warm bath before bed.

She hadn't been able to get in the nap she'd been hoping for as she'd been called into the lab. She hadn't minded – the overtime was great – but she'd kept the mildly groggy feeling that she just couldn't get enough sleep. She had worked through Sunday night and into Monday. A few times she'd laid down on the futon to rest, but she hadn't been able to actually fall asleep. She kept the annoying feeling that something was sitting on her chest every time she began to doze off, as though she were having an echo of the nightmare that had awoken her Sunday morning. So instead of bemoaning her lack of sleep, she had worked. And worked.

And worked.

At some point, it had all blurred. She lost track of what was being done, and said, and put herself on autopilot. The next thing she had really been aware of was someone trying to shove her head into that damned machine, and her desperation to get back out. If there was no air in her dreams, there sure as hell wasn't any in that machine.

And then she'd been here. It was kind of like a drunken binge without the alcohol, she imagined. According to Ducky, she was missing several days of her life. Days during which she had done her job acceptably, but days which where missing, nonetheless.

She didn't like it.

"Here you go," Gibbs said as he entered the room with a large red cup in his hand. He set the cup on her bedside tray and leaned forward to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Feeling stupid," she said, reaching for the cup and trying to lift it. She didn't get far. The large glass began to topple, and it was only Gibbs' quick reflexes that saved her from a very cold bath. "Sorry," she muttered. "I was mentioning the stupid part?"

"Got that," he said with a small smile. "Let me help." Thankfully, he did not hold the large cup for her. That would have been just too humiliating. Instead, he dumped out the white, Styrofoam water cup and filled it about a third of the way with Caf-Pow. Putting the lid and straw back in place, he handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said, taking a sip. Like an addict getting his first hit in a week – or an alcoholic the first drink of the morning – she gave a sigh of relief. Caffeine was indeed her drug of choice.

"No problem," he told her.

She took another couple of sips, resting against the pillows. The best part about Gibbs, she thought, was that he didn't clutter things up with a lot of unnecessary words. He understood the value of quiet. Not since she'd grown up in a silent household had she enjoyed the precious commodity of silence.

Of course, she talked enough for herself and at least two other people. She talked to her machines, talked to herself, and talked to everyone around her with an enthusiasm that came from that same background of silence. Still, when she was sick, the silence was a comfort.

She closed her eyes and relaxed, thinking that maybe some sleep would be a good idea after all. Aside from the period of light sedation, she really didn't feel like she'd rested in weeks. So she lowered the back of her bed with the touch of a finger and answered Gibbs' raised eyebrow by bringing her hand with open fingers down in front of her face, closing the fingers as she went; the sign for sleep. Gibbs gave a gentle smile and leaned back in his chair to rest as well.

She was barely drifting into something between awake and asleep when she felt the weight on her chest again. As though some monster was wrapping its arms around her and squeezing the life out of her, she struggled to get in a breath. Meanwhile, a shrill whistle began that jolted her from sleep and had Gibbs standing over her bed even as nurses came running.

Still fuzzy, Abby wasn't quite sure what was happening as a mask was placed over her face and nurses began talking to her. Gradually, the haze cleared and she was able to see Gibbs, hear the nurses, and catch her breath.

"Heart rate is still normal," one nurse told another. "Sats are back up in the nineties. How are you feeling, Ms. Scuito?"

Abby couldn't answer, mostly because she didn't know. She shrugged a shoulder even as Gibbs stepped in. "She was taking a nap," he said firmly. "Then the alarms started going off."

The nurse gave her the once-over again, listening to her heart and lungs and then checking to be sure that the values on the equipment were within normal limits. "She was probably breathing shallowly," the nurse finally said. "Everything else appears to be normal, but for a moment her oxygen level was extremely low. How are you feeling now?"

Abby knew she couldn't get by with another shrug. "Fine," she said, and it was truthful. "Except this mask." She hated having the thing over her face.

The nurse nodded, and moved it out of the way, leaving the nasal cannula in place even as she turned up the level of oxygen that Abby was receiving. "I'll make a note of this in your chart," she said. "If it happens again, we'll contact your physician."

Abby nodded, still not in the mood for talk, and watched the nurse leave.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked her softly.

"I think so," she answered, truthful, if not addressing the fear factor that had just entered the scenario. "I thought it was another nightmare until everyone came running."

"Nightmare?" Gibbs asked.

She gave a shrug. "Nothing specific," she told him. "Just… variations on a theme. I dream that I can't quite get my breath. It's been happening for about a week. Probably one horror movie too many."

"You need to sleep," he said unnecessarily.

"Not so much," she replied. "When I was in college, sometimes I'd go three or four days on a couple of hours, and that wasn't so bad. Actually, that's when I got into Caf-Pow really hard, and…"

Gibbs put a finger over her lips to stop the babble. She knew as well as he did that she didn't really have anything to say but was instead searching for an argument. "Everyone needs sleep," he told her. "Even you. Try again; I'll be here to keep an eye on you."

She nodded even as he moved back and relocated his chair so that he could hold her hand through the railing. The touch of his hand was firm and comforting, and she knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her. With a small sigh, she squeezed his hand and closed her eyes.

This time, she made it into the dream. She drifted from the hospital bed and into a quiet clearing. She walked along, giving a happy sigh at the green grass and blue sky, the lovely red roses and the tiny blue flowers which grew along the sides of her path. Her feet were bare, but the grass was soft. She smiled at the peace of the day.

Without realizing it, the world around her began to dim. A cloud, she thought. It must be a cloud. The colors around her began to grey, and the darkness intensified at the edges of her vision. She gasped, trying to suck in air, but she wasn't able to do so. All of the air was gone, the gray air was solid and she couldn't breathe it in.

The shrill whistle was welcome this time, as was the plastic cone held over her face. Greedily she sucked in air, like a thirsty person getting their first drink in a month. She felt like she had when she'd gone swimming with her cousin Alice and they had decided to dive down and see if they could find any caves. Abby had caught her foot in a crack between the rocks, and it had taken her forever to get herself free. By the time she had broken the surface, each breath had been a burning relief to her aching chest. The felt the same way now.

Awareness came slowly, as did the knowledge that a nurse had replaced Gibbs' position next to her and was the one currently holding the oxygen mask in place. Another nurse was on her other side, listening to her chest with a stethoscope even as the automatic blood pressure cuff tightened on Abby's arm. At the foot of the bed, Dr. Hucker was watching carefully, even as he flipped through the pages of her chart. She looked frantically around the room until she saw Gibbs. He was standing next to the door, as though he were either leaving or returning, and he looked terrified. It had to be a trick of the dream, she decided, because Gibbs never took time to be terrified.

He didn't look any better though, when the doctor made him leave the room so that he could examine her. Eyes, ears, reflexes, throat, heart, lungs… the doctor seemed to check everything all over again. They brought in the EKG machine and once more tested her heart, and then the nurse took blood in the most painful way that Abby had experienced. Rather than entering the skin at an angle, as was necessary to access a vein, this nurse instead stabbed the needle in at a ninety degree angle to access the artery. Blood gasses, Abby thought. They were checking arterial blood gasses.

She wasn't stupid. And all her time listening to Ducky had ensured that she had a better-than-average knowledge of medical procedures. After all, she'd performed blood gas analysis on hundreds of cadavers. She knew quite well what they were looking for. She wasn't surprised when they found it.

The afternoon took forever, even with Gibbs making small talk beside her. Ducky came in just after dinner, bringing with him a large order of French fries. She didn't have an appetite, but she appreciated the sentiment. Just after seven, Dr. Hucker finally joined them, with his charts in hand and his blood tests ready.

We have answer, she realized. It was there in the certainty of the doctor's face and in the concern on Ducky's. They had an answer. She just hoped it was one she could live with. She'd never really been sick before, and she didn't want to start now.


End file.
